


Where You Tend A Rose, A Thistle Cannot Grow

by couronnedesfleurs



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Child Leia Organa, Child Luke Skywalker, Darth Vader Has Issues, Darth Vader's A+ parenting, Fairy Tale Elements, Gen, Gothic, Hurt/Comfort, Luke Skywalker Needs A Hug, Secret Garden AU, Suitless Darth Vader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:21:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29757471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/couronnedesfleurs/pseuds/couronnedesfleurs
Summary: At the turn of the twentieth century on the bleak Yorkshire moors, young Luke Lars is sent to live with his only surviving relative, Lord Vader, at mysterious Mustafar Manor. The man wants as little to do with the orphan as possible and is rarely at home, which suits Luke perfectly, as he is determined to find out what lies behind the mysterious locked door in the gardens.The Secret Garden au.
Relationships: Luke Skywalker & Darth Vader
Comments: 40
Kudos: 78





	1. Leaving The Docks

**Author's Note:**

> The 1993 version of Secret Garden is one of my fave childhood/comfort movies. It’s so gloomy and Gothic but beautiful, and the soundtrack is *incredible*, would highly recommend if you haven't seen it. I've had this idea floating around for a long time but re-watching it yesterday made me want to finally start writing it down. I can totally see Vader stalking around a dark Victorian mansion. 
> 
> Full disclaimer: this is a self-indulgent therapy fic for me and life is difficult atm so idk how frequently it will be updated, especially as I have a lot of other WIPs.
> 
> Enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having lived all his life in a never-ending desert, Luke crosses the ocean to find himself in yet another desolate landscape.

Luke’s stomach churned, the rolling waves still making him slightly dizzy, and he was relieved to hear the gangplank finally being lowered.

It had been a slow, arduous voyage across the ocean, days and nights blurring into one. The dark sea seemed to stretch on forever, a monster from the depths of Luke’s nightmares, devouring and deadly. He had laid cramped in his tiny bunk for hours on end, eyes awake and unblinking, praying that he would make it to shore safely. Having been raised in the desert, he’d never seen so much water before in his life, and his legs turned to jelly whenever he had to leave the small cabin. The other children, victims of the same earthquake that had orphaned him, seemed to take the adventure in their stride, unbothered by the rollicking sea that threatened to drown them with every lurch of the ship. Then again, they all had family waiting for them on the other side of that vast ocean, siblings and aunts and grandparents that would lovingly take them into their fold without hesitation. With those prospects before them, it was no wonder they felt invincible.

For Luke, the treacherous journey was only the start of his troubles.

When he had embarked on his usual weekly walk to the nearest town for supplies, he hadn’t expected it to be the last time he would ever see Beru and Owen Lars. One moment the day had been like any other, the sun beating relentlessly on his browned back. Then the ground had begun to tremble violently, as if Hades himself would burst from the centre of the earth at any moment in his chariot of flames. He was thrown off balance and fell on his stomach, halfway between home and any other civilisation, the awful sounds of screaming and clamouring in the distance drowned out by the sudden roar of the wind that whipped rough grains into his eyes. The sand beneath his belly shook and shuddered, sliding around restlessly as if hoping to suck him down, and all he could do was lie there.

As soon as the earth stopped groaning, leaving a deadly quiet in its wake, Luke clambered to his feet, racing home as quickly as he could. It was only by sheer dumb luck that his body was not buried under the ruins of the home along with his guardians. With bone-chilling horror he backed away from the rubble, their vacant expressions vowing to haunt him forever, and ran for help that would never come.

That was the last he ever saw of his home.

The earthquake had devastated most of the surrounding area, and many children had been left abandoned or orphaned like Luke. He’d spent a few stiff, uncomfortable nights in the house of a child welfare officer in the nearest city. The man had several children of his own, and they looked down on Luke with his sun-bleached hair and modest clothes. He was asked questions that made no sense, questions he had no idea how to answer. The officials seemed bemused that the boy knew so little of his adopted parents, let alone his birth parents, but Luke could only give them the barest details.

His fate hung in the balance for a few days. They made enquiries, but nobody wanted the extra burden of another child so soon after the disaster. No friends or family of Owen or Beru Lars came forward to claim him. Eventually a distant step-brother of Owen’s was located, far away in Northern England, and Luke’s things were packed for departure before he was properly consulted on the decision.

Which brought him to the present, hauling his battered suitcase with its few meagre possessions down the gangplank. He and the other children had been chaperoned on the ship by a group of kindly matrons, who now wanted nothing more than to transfer their charges to their families and get back on the boat as soon as possible. The weather was hellish, with horizontal rain bordering on sleet that danced tauntingly around the procession of black umbrellas making their way into the docks.

The children stood in a small cluster, eventually breaking away as their families arrived to collect them when their names were called out by the registrar. Luke watched a little girl run into the warm embrace of what seemed to be an aunt, and a pair of twins reunite with their father. His own name was called, and he waited for someone to come forward to claim him. Nobody did. At length, when it became clear no one was there for him, he was asked to step to the back of the line to make room for the other children.

Propping his case up against a balustrade, he sat hugging his knees against the bitter wind, and there he remained until many hours later. The docks were deserted now, every single child having been picked up and shepherded to a welcoming home with a warm supper on the table and a cosy bed. There was only the registrar, peering worriedly at him over the rim of his half-moon spectacles, and a sole dust sweeper.

‘Do you know who’s coming to claim you, child?’ the man asked, crouching down as if to get on Luke’s level. Had Luke not been so numb from grief and the cold, he would have been offended. He knew he was a bit short for a twelve-year-old, but there was still plenty of time for a growth spurt. That’s what Beru had always said, anyway.

The thought of her brought a fresh wave of sorrow crashing down over him. He shook his head silently.

‘Hmmm.’

The man straightened up with a cracking sound, perusing through his register self-importantly. Luke could tell the man wanted to be rid of him and on his way home, but it was hardly Luke’s fault that nobody had come for him.

A horrible thought struck him. What if this was it? What if nobody came to retrieve him? What if he was left on the cold damp floor of the docks forever, in a country he’d never been in before?

He had no money, and few possessions. He hadn’t been shy of work in India, and was useful with his hands- but he had a feeling that would not get him far in this strange place.

He tried to think of what Beru and Owen would tell him to do, how they would urge him to be brave and not to give up. It was much easier said than done, sat hunched and freezing next to the cold dark sea, feeling incredibly alone.

‘Is that the boy?’

Luke’s head shot up, a brief flicker of hope quickly extinguished as out of the darkness came a tall lean figure, dressed all in black. The voice was clipped and aristocratic.

‘Is that him? Luke Lars?’ the man repeated impatiently, completely ignoring Luke and instead glaring down his nose at the flustered registrar.

‘Just one moment sir, let me see… number forty-three… yes, that’s him. Luke Lars.’

‘Well, stand up child, and let me get a good look at you.’

Initially Luke didn’t trust his limbs to crumple beneath him, aching and tired and cold as they were; but he uncurled himself, getting to his feet and locking eyes with the newcomer for the first time.

The man towered over him, spindly and thin like a mannequin. There was something skeletal about his face, cheekbones carved unnervingly deep and ghostly pale eyes peering down at him. His hair was grey, almost white, and combed flat on his head. He looked like a spectre out of one of Luke’s storybooks.

With a bony hand, the man grasped his chin, tugging his face left and right.

‘Hmm. There’s not much to you. You look like one small gust of wind would blow you clean away.’

The man laughed unpleasantly, a high unnatural sound not unlike nails screeching down a blackboard. Luke said nothing.

‘And not a talker, either. Thank the Lord for small mercies, for there’s little room for children where you’re going, let alone noisy, misbehaved children.’

He turned back to the registrar, once again ignoring Luke.

‘I’m Tarkin. Wilhuff Tarkin, butler of Mustafar Manor. I’m here on behalf of Lord Vader, his guardian, to collect this child.’

The registrar, for all his earlier bluster, seemed concerned.

‘Yes, well, we were expecting you slightly earlier, Mr Tarkin. As it is, with it now being so late, perhaps it would be best for you to take the boy tomorrow when he’s fresh from a good night’s sleep-’

‘Nonsense. The child has been idle and lazy on a ship for the best part of a week; I’m sure he can stand a few more hours in a warm carriage. From the looks of him, he’s hardly come from the lap of luxury.’

There was a sneer to the man’s voice as his eyes roved over Luke’s threadbare coat and patched suitcase. The Lars had never been rich, and were certainly modest people, but they had always told Luke to take pride in himself and his possessions. Tarkin’s blatant snobbery rubbed Luke the wrong way, and he longed to disprove the man’s theory that he was a quiet obedient child.

‘Now, we’d best be getting on. The weather has set in, and getting over the moors in the dark is no easy feat. You should be grateful I made it at all, with the conditions as they are.’

It was unclear whether Tarkin aimed the last at the registrar or Luke, but he swiftly turned away, marching in the direction of a carriage that Luke hadn’t noticed before. The howl of the wind and rain had camouflaged the sound of the hooves and wheels approaching.

‘Well don’t stand there dithering, child. I haven’t got all day.’

With that, Tarkin climbed into the carriage, letting Luke struggle with his case alone. Seeing his difficulty, the registrar took pity on him and together he and the coachman hauled it into place.

Luke thanked the man politely for his help as well as for waiting with him all these hours, as Beru would’ve undoubtedly wished him to. He may be a desert rat, born and bred, but he did have some manners, whatever Tarkin might think. The man’s default aloof expression thawed unexpectedly, and he briefly clasped Luke’s thin shoulder.

‘God be with you, Luke Lars. I’ve a feeling you’ll need it.’

The roar of the sea and the twinkling lights of the dock and the city were gone all too soon, leaving the wind whistling through the eaves of the carriage and the resounding darkness as Luke’s only companion on this journey. Although he was now on land again, his limbs still shook violently as if caressed by the mercy of the ocean many hours after they’d left it behind. The shutters were not drawn, but it would have made no difference if they had been, as a wall of pitch-black greeted Luke every time he dared to glance out of the window.

At first Tarkin had sat in silence, watching him like a hawk from the corner, but eventually he had started talking, and one he started, it was unclear whether he would stop. The monologues droned on for hours, dull, dreary things about etiquette and rules, requiring little to no interaction from Luke.

‘You are to be seen and not heard. The Master has important matters to attend to, and has no time for children. Do I make myself clear?’

Luke nodded mutely.

‘You are very lucky that the Master agreed to take you in. He is rarely home, so you will have to amuse yourself until a school can be found that will take you. Your background is undoubtedly unconventional, so you must learn to adapt to our ways. For your sake, you should do this quickly.’

‘School? Am I to be sent away?’ Luke spoke for the first time, trying to hide his panic. He had heard tales of boarding schools, of their dreary monotony and loneliness. After all he had been through, that seemed like the worst fate he could be dealt.

Tarkin sniffed.

‘Naturally. You must have a proper education, and Mustafar Manor is not suitable for children. The sooner you can be sent away, the better- for everyone involved.’

Luke was silent again, and Tarkin mistook his agony for appreciation.

‘It is normal to become overwhelmed by such a generous proposition, especially when you do not possess the adequate conduct to show gratitude. That will soon be rectified. An education fit for a King at one of the finest boarding houses in the country, and not a penny of it to be paid by you. You are indeed a lucky child, Luke Lars. Lord Vader has been most benevolent, especially considering your… lack of connection.’

He sniffed again.

‘Remind me of your relation to him, boy?’

‘Owen Lars was my adopted father. Lord Vader is his step-brother,’ Luke repeated dully as he had done so many times on the voyage over. The other children had been awed and impressed by his distant affiliation with a _Lord._ Luke would trade the title ten times over to have his parents back.

‘Ah, yes. A most unfortunate connection. Lord Vader always was grieved by the status of his family after his mother remarried. If it weren’t for the memory of that poor deceased lady, I wonder whether he would have taken you in at all. His charity far exceeds mine had I been in his situation, or any other man for that matter.’

He said this with far too much glee and not an ounce of humility, and Luke hated him for it. He wished the man would stop talking, and better yet, stop looking at him like a magpie eyes treasure for its nest.

‘Maybe it is the light, but your features seem familiar. Who were your birth parents?’

Luke stiffened. If his adopted parents were a sore spot, then his birth parents were strictly off limits.

‘I know nothing of them. They were nobody.’

The words hurt, but for all he knew, they were true.

‘Hmm. That does not surprise me. It is a trick of the light that makes you familiar, perhaps, the shadow of the lamp. The moors play queer tricks on even the most erudite of minds.’

Luke could see nothing of the moors, pitch black in the dark of night, but he was far more inclined to find blame with Tarkin’s intolerable personality than with any supernatural power they may have held over him.

There was something of the uncanny about him, however, in his limpid gaze and spidery hands. He predicted their arrival at the manor when he couldn’t possibly have seen it looming on the horizon, the night as dark as it was. Luke could still barely make out the house as he disembarked from the carriage, and all he could say for sure was that it was impossibly grand and imposing, no lights twinkling at the windows and no fires lit to herald their arrival.

He followed Tarkin through a back passageway, presumably the servant’s entrance, tripping over the sharp flagstones with their raised edges. The only source of light was the lone candle Tarkin held aloft, and Luke almost fancied he could see the man’s bones peeking through his paper-thin skin in the eerie glow of the flame.

They climbed up countless staircases, Luke’s case seemingly heavier with every step, and he teetered on the brink of exhaustion. He had slept poorly on the ship, and didn’t sleep at all in the carriage. There was no way the winding road, bumpy cobbles or whistling wind would have surrendered him to dreamland, even if Tarkin hadn’t been hovering over him like a vulture.

At long last, when Luke had long since lost count of which floor they must be on, Tarkin pushed open a heavy mahogany door. The room was huge and ornate and foreboding, far too big for one small boy. The fire had long since gone out, leaving a chilling draught that permeated the walls.

‘Someone will bring your breakfast in the morning and attend to you. Do not leave this room.’

With so much as a goodnight, Tarkin left, the heavy sound of the key in the lock prefacing his militant footsteps as he marched back down the passage.

Not even bothering to remove his coat and only barely kicking off his shoes, Luke dived underneath the stiff sheets of the four-poster bed with chattering teeth. He’d hoped sleep would welcome him with warm, dreamless arms, but it was cold and comfortless as he buried his head into the pillow and allowed himself to cry for the first time since his parents had been killed.


	2. The Wing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luke ventures out of his room and finds no shortage of curiosities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for such great feedback from the first chapter! This is new territory for me but I hope I’m capturing the Gothic-ness of the story okay. I'm really enjoying writing it, at any rate. 
> 
> Just a quick warning for this chapter: nothing happens that doesn’t happen in the movie or book (both rated U) but Tarkin is a monstrous shit who shouldn’t be allowed around children and there are threats of abuse/violence. If this triggers you, please skip from ‘He came to the end of the corridor’ to ‘The only solace’.

Luke woke blearily the next morning to the sounds of Tarkin bustling through the door.

‘Heavens child, have you not stirred yourself yet? Half the morning has already gone and you are still idling in bed, and in yesterday’s clothes too!’ the man scorned, placing a breakfast tray on the table. The clock on the mantlepiece began to chime eight.

‘There are new clothes for you in the wardrobe. You shall have to look after yourself. No one can be spared to run around after a child; we have enough to do already.’

Luke climbed out of bed, glancing at the window. It was misty with condensation, obscuring the peaks of the moors.

‘The weather hasn’t shifted, otherwise I would send you outside to get you out from under our feet. As it is, you shall have to amuse yourself indoors.’

Looking around the room, Luke felt an impending sense of desperation.

‘I have to stay in here all day?’

‘There are over a hundred rooms in this house, yet this one and no other is yours,’ Tarkin said sharply, ‘you are not to touch anything, or go wandering and poking about, or you will regret it. And don’t expect to see the Master because you surely won’t.’

He left, and Luke noticed there was no sound of the key in the lock this time. Either Tarkin had been careless, or he was convinced that he’d frightened Luke into such submission that he would stay put.

Luke pressed his ear to the heavy door, hearing his footsteps fade away. They were quickly replaced by new sets, and servants muttering to each other as they went about their duties.

‘-she wouldn’t settle at all, it was horrendous; in the end the doctor had to be called again-’

‘-the Master will not be pleased-’

Luke didn’t risk poking his head out of the door in case he was seen. As soon as the coast was clear however, he would sneak out to explore.

On the table there was a bowl of grey sloppy substance that he guessed was porridge, but it was already cold. It must have taken too long to transport it from the kitchens to his room. The tea was lukewarm too, and he ended up leaving the whole tray untouched. His stomach grumbled in complaint.

He wasn’t a picky child, especially when it came to food- in the desert you took whatever you could get. But his situation, made all the worse by being confined to this room, had completely taken away any appetite he might have had.

He pulled on some clothes from the wardrobe, not really paying attention to what he was wearing. He was about to leave yesterday’s clothes out for the laundry when a thought struck him. What if the maids of this fine house decided his clothes were mere rags, not worth the time to clean, and threw them away? They were all he had left of his previous life.

Quickly he stuffed them under the bed into his battered suitcase. It was hidden from view by the long fringe beading of the heavy eiderdown. That would hopefully keep the clothes safe from Tarkin or any of the servants, though he could never wear them again while he lived here. There was little else in there, as he’d already retrieved the most precious item of all. His elephant, carved from japor and no bigger than his little finger, was tucked safely in his pocket as it had always been. Japor was a rare stone from his home country, incredibly valuable, and had been gifted to him one birthday by his mother. It was the most extravagant gift he’d ever received, and he took it everywhere with him as a good luck charm. That was the only reason it hadn’t been crushed to oblivion on the day of the earthquake.

His future didn’t seem like a fair prospect if this was a glimpse of what was to come; long lonely days spent locked in this dim room, looking longingly out of the window. Breathing on the glass, he wiped a small area clean with his sleeve. The moors didn’t seem quite as fearsome as they had last night, the edges softened slightly by the grey morning sky. It was impossible, however, not to look at the bleak and barren land stretching out for miles around, as far as the eye could see, and not feel like a small boat tossed on a tempest.

Retreating from the window, Luke turned his attention to the tapestries on the wall. They were thick and ornate, woven from high quality thread, and probably worth more alone than his old house. Remembering Tarkin’s order not to touch, he brushed his fingers along the patterns with a small sense of triumph.

He was so busy tracing the lines that at first he didn’t register the bumpy texture behind the tapestry. His hand stilled, and then scrabbled back along the wall, grasping something that felt suspiciously like a handle. Hardly daring to believe his luck, he cautiously lifted the edge of the hanging to reveal a small door in the wall.

It creaked open when he pushed forward, releasing a cloud of dust that quickly settled again. The door had obviously remained unopened and forgotten for some time, otherwise they wouldn’t have allocated him this room.

Without hesitation he levered himself under the tapestry and through the door. He made sure to leave it slightly ajar so he didn’t lock himself out. If Tarkin had been telling the truth, then nobody would check on him or even realise he had gone. 

Wiping grime from his clothes, he found himself in what looked like an abandoned wing. Clusters of chairs were scattered haphazardly around like a tea party that had been hastily abandoned. A row of taxidermized heads lined the whitewashed walls, swathed in cobwebs. Their beady unseeing eyes followed Luke as he slowly made his way down the passage, tiptoeing around discarded furniture and dirt, not wanting to disturb anything.

A majestic bookcase stood adrift further down the hall, depleted of any books or contents save for a few spiders. A neighbouring stack of drawers had been flung open and left half closed at different angles, creating a rickety ladder that climbed its way up the wall. Propped up on the adjacent doorway was a large mirror with a beautiful gilt frame, smashed to pieces by an angry fist. The shards littered the floor and Luke warily manoeuvred around them.

The wing seemed dead, like a spell had been cast upon it. 

He half-heartedly pushed open a door as he passed, and was attacked by a flurry of wings. He’d disturbed a flock of pigeons that had long since made their nest in what looked like the study. Wrinkling his nose at the smell, he quietly shut the door again.

One of the pigeons had escaped, and was now flapping up a small set of spiral stairs concealed in the corner. Luke followed, feeling increasingly like he was getting sucked into a fairy tale, as if a mighty dragon would leap out at him any moment.

Peering apprehensively around the corner, he was relieved not to encounter any glowing eyes or steaming snouts, though they certainly wouldn’t have been out of place. The room was curved like a turret, and Luke half expected to find a sleeping princess in the hazy light.

It seemed the occupant had long since departed. Most of the furniture was shrouded in white cloth, and the few pieces left uncovered had been exposed to the elements. Dust had settled in thick blankets, burying the clutter of photographs and miniatures and trinkets on the mantlepiece. The air was musty and stale with the ghost of a fragrant perfume from long ago. 

There was something eerily casual about the strings of pearls strewn carelessly across the vanity. A delicate shawl was draped over the back of a velvet chair, as if its owner would return at any moment to retrieve it. Silver combs and brushes lay neatly side by side, and a jade hair grip in the shape of a butterfly perched on top of a jewellery box. Next to it was a small white necklace, which Luke realised with a jolt was made from japor like his elephant. He doubted it had the same worth in this country, and it was odd to see it amidst the fine broaches and jewels. He wondered if it had been given as a present, or if its owner had visited India themselves. Retrieving his elephant from his pocket, he softly clinked its white trunk against the jagged edge of the pendant.

The strangest, most beautiful thing were the vines. They crept through the arched windows, curling their way around the walls until they became part of the foundations, part of the room itself. But they too were now dead, hanging limp, grey with neglect and lack of sunlight.

It felt wrong to be there, like he had stumbled onto a memorial, something sacred that he didn’t understand. The air held its breath with an unnatural silence, broken only by the faint cooing of the pigeon.

His attention was drawn by a large photograph on the vanity in a silver frame. Sweeping the dust away with his fingers, he took in the figure of a young woman. She was sat on a swing woven with trails of roses, and despite the grainy monochrome, he could imagine the vibrant colours and sweet summer air. Her long dark hair hung loose and curly around her shoulders, and her face was lit up with radiant laughter. She was incongruously beautiful in this haunted room, but it was her eyes that Luke couldn’t tear himself away from. They were warm and kind and somehow familiar. They reminded him of his mother.

Who was she? Had she been Vader’s wife, the mistress of this house? What had happened to her? It seemed inconceivable that the vivacious woman was no longer here, but Luke knew with absolute certainty that she was not. This room, abandoned and shut away at the back of the house, was the only thing that preserved her memory.

He noticed a square wooden box next to the portrait, and smoothed the dust away from it with his grimy fingers, revealing a pattern of roses. As he gently lifted the lid, the tune of Greensleeves tinkled out, spine-tingling in the silence.

There was no jewellery inside, or trinkets, or keepsakes. The space was occupied by a large brass key nestled in a bed of dead leaves.

Luke cautiously picked it up, running the pad of his thumb over the handle's intricate swirls. It was old and heavy, and could have been used for any number of doors in the house, though he’d never seen a key so carefully kept before, guarded like a piece of treasure in its own chest.

He suddenly got the feeling that he’d overstayed his welcome. Hastily he placed the key back in its box and shut the lid, heart pounding, and all but ran down the winding stairs.

He didn’t stop at the landing, and descended down the main staircase and through countless poky passages and endless corridors until he’d completely lost his bearings. He distantly realised he’d strayed into the occupied part of the manor, but all thoughts of Tarkin and his threats had been long forgotten in the moment. He was consumed by feelings of fate, of foreboding, of something strange and sorrowful that he was never supposed to see. Only once he was away from the desolate wing could he begin to think clearly again, heart resuming its normal pace.

He wandered unseeingly along the long empty corridors, his head spinning. In all the correspondence between his temporary guardians in the city and Lord Vader, and even during the one-sided conversation with Tarkin, no one had ever made any mention of an aunt. Luke guessed he was never supposed to have found out, or suspect that she’d even existed, which made his stomach twist further. What could have happened that was so awful, that nobody even referenced her, nor mentioned that the Lord was a widower?

A loud wailing cry suddenly pierced the solitude of his thoughts, startling him out of his skin. It rang high above the howl of the wind outside the gaunt windows. His blood ran cold, and he wheeled around, trying to work out where the sound was coming from. It was everywhere and nowhere at once. Despite the volume, it sounded like it was echoing from a great distance, as if it had perforated the entire house in its omniscient misery. He couldn’t tell the gender, though it sounded high pitched and young.

There was a great thundering of footsteps below, and he peeked over the banister at the myriad of stairs below, watching as white-capped servants ran hastily downwards.

A child?

But Tarkin had said that Mustafar Manor was no place for children. He had made no suggestion that another child lived here.

Then again, he had never mentioned Luke’s deceased aunt either.

His heart starting to thump furiously once more, Luke attempted to follow the sound, determined to find out what they were hiding from him. Strangely he encountered no servants, which told him that they were all in on the secret too, whatever it was, and had rushed straight to the source.

He came to the end of the corridor, seemingly barred by a tapestry of Edward VI. Luke was starting to learn the ways of this odd, labyrinthine house, and reached out his hand before rearing back in shock as someone barrelled straight through, almost knocking him over.

Tarkin blinked at Luke, once, twice. Then a look of fury came over his grey face and he roughly grabbed his arm.

‘What on earth are you doing out of your room? What did I tell you about staying out of sight?’

He hauled Luke back down the corridor, away from the sounds of the sobbing and weeping. Luke looked back over his shoulder desperately, but Tarkin yanked him up the stairs, half carrying and half dragging him.

‘I- I heard someone crying!’ Luke protested, trying to catch his breath.

‘Dogs,’ Tarkin said coldly, even as the sound persisted, following them up the stairs and down the winding passages.

‘No, someone! A person crying!’

‘You heard nothing of the sort, foolish child.’

He was manhandled back to his room, Tarkin walking so quickly that Luke lost his bearings again, having no idea of where they had come from. He knew he would have great difficulty trying to retrace his steps back to the tapestry.

Flinging open the door, Tarkin pinned his shoulders against the hard mahogany with bony fingers.

‘Now you just listen carefully, seeing as you didn’t heed my warning last time. If I see hide or hair of you again today, I’ll come and box your ears. You’ll stay put if you know what’s good for you. Is that clear, boy?’

Luke glared at him, and Tarkin shoved him back into the bedroom so hard he almost fell over, slamming the door and locking it.

Breathing heavily, face flushed, Luke listened to the man’s hateful footsteps retreat down the corridor. He wrapped his arms around himself, massaging his bicep where it had been seized.

The only solace was that Tarkin didn’t seem to realise Luke had used the secret door to escape, but it was a small victory. Luke wasn’t keen on venturing into that part of the house again anytime soon. Although it gave him access to the main house, he would have to bide his time and wait until Tarkin forgot about him again so that he could find the source of the sounds. Maybe he could go in the dead of night when everyone else would be asleep- but it was hard to imagine the frightful butler partaking in something as mundane as sleep. There was no guarantee that Tarkin, as head of the household when the Master was away, wouldn’t be awake and patrolling the manor. The image of Tarkin gliding through the empty dark corridors like a spectre made Luke shiver, but he was determined to try regardless.

He would wait patiently, play the obedient child, and then sneak out when it was least expected. While the mystery of the deserted wing with its vines and keys and ghosts had undoubtedly piqued his interest, he wouldn’t rest until he found out who had been crying, and why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope these shorter chapters are okay. They make things more manageable for me and mean more frequent updates (well in theory lol). 
> 
> Comments are really motivating so please let me know what you thought! Thanks for reading :)
> 
> Come scream about SW with me on [Tumblr](https://couronnedesfleurs.tumblr.com/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/fleurscouronne).


	3. The Housekeeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luke finally meets a friendly face.

It was now pitch black outside the windows. The fire had long since died, and the lone candle on the table had burnt down almost to the wick. Luke wasn’t looking forward to being thrust into total darkness, and suspected that there might be more candles stashed in the huge armoire next to the door, but like most things in this house, it was locked.

He’d become so used to the eerie silence that he jumped violently out of his skin when the door creaked open. Scrambling back on the vast bed, he watched with wide eyes as a woman entered, her face illuminated by the edges of a bright oil lamp. She carried a tray in her other hand.

‘Good evening, Master Lars.’

She smiled at him, her blue eyes crinkling, and he was so shocked at the small act of kindness that all he could do was stare. Her smile quickly faltered as she placed the tray and oil lamp down, and rounded on the extinguished grate.

‘Has no one been in to relight the fire all day?’

Luke shook his head, and the woman pursed her lips. Procuring a match from the pocket of her billowing skirts, she generously piled the grate with fresh coal from the scuttle and set the mound ablaze. Almost immediately the room started to feel more like an inhabitable space and less like the inside of an icehouse.

She stood up after placing a bedpan to warm above the flames, brushing her hands on her apron.

‘I’m Mistress Tano, the housekeeper, and head of the household when the Master is away. You can call me Ahsoka.’

‘Head of the household?’ Luke asked confusedly, ‘But I thought…’

He was reluctant to say Tarkin’s name, as if the utterance would call him forth like a demon from the depths of hell, but Ahsoka knew what he was getting at.

‘Tarkin is my equal in rank,’ she said with clear distaste, ‘and is in charge of certain matters within the household, but I do not answer to him. I’m sorry I was unavailable to collect you yesterday, much less greet you when you arrived. There was an… unavoidable situation in which I was needed urgently.’

Luke couldn’t imagine how much pleasanter the journey from the docks would have been if he’d been met by Ahsoka rather than Tarkin, and if the guilt on her face was anything to go by, Ahsoka was also acutely aware of this.

‘I’ve been run off my feet all day, barely had a moment to breathe, I’ve been so busy with L- with the house. But I was determined to be the one to bring your dinner and finally meet you properly.’

She unlocked the chest and took two candles out for later.

‘Where are the clothes you arrived in? They’ll need to be taken to the laundry.’

‘S-someone already took them,’ Luke lied, his palms sweaty. She gave him an odd look but didn’t pry any further, instead casting a worried glance at the two plates on the table. They were both full.

‘You haven’t touched your breakfast, or lunch. Are you unwell?’

Luke shook his head again. The cold porridge had looked unappetising, especially after his adventure into the abandoned wing. When his lunch had been brought by a pale faced scullery maid who didn’t look much older than him, he’d tried to talk to her, but she continued with her duties so hurriedly and silently that Luke guessed she was forbidden from speaking to him. She left the room as quickly as she could, and she had forgotten to light the fire in her haste to leave his sight. The whole encounter had made him feel ten times lonelier, and his appetite, which up until that point had been steadily growing, suddenly vanished altogether.

‘Is there a problem with the food, Master Lars?’

The address made him flinch. He was no longer a Lars in any way that mattered.

‘My name’s Luke. And nothing’s wrong with it, I’m just not hungry. I haven’t been since…’

He trailed off, looking down at the embroidered quilt.

Once again, she seemed to know instinctively what was wrong.

‘My apologies, Luke.’

Seeming to come to some kind of silent decision, she settled herself in one of the chairs, rearranging her skirts daintily. Luke cocked his head in confusion.

‘Well, if you don’t mind, I’m completely famished. It’d be a pity to let so much good food go to waste, so if you’re sure you don’t want it, I’ll gladly help myself.’

He could only blink at her in astonishment. This was the first fine house he’d ever been in and he was fairly clueless about rules and etiquette, but he hadn’t expected the housekeeper to act this way. Was it normal for them to eat the unwanted meals of their charges?

Sighing in contentment, she undid the strings of her apron and draped it over the back of the chair. Luke half expected her to prop her feet up on the table as if she was in the kitchens below stairs. 

As she lifted the lid off the tray, the most delicious aroma seeped out into the air, and Luke’s stomach rumbled.

‘It’s Lord Vader’s favourite today; he demands it to be made every week when he’s at home, and what a delectable dish it is!’ she said excitedly, as if talking to herself.

Luke shifted forward on the bed, drawn in both by the scent and the mention of the Master.

‘My uncle is here? Tarkin said I wouldn’t be seeing him.’

‘It’s such a shame I don’t have someone to keep me company while I eat. I’d heard rumours of a fine upstanding young man named Luke who lives in this house; I’m sure he’d be a remarkable dining companion, and I could tell him about his uncle,’ she said wistfully.

He slid off the bed and padded over to the table, climbing into the chair opposite and hugging his knees.

‘Why, there he is!’

With a smile that was at once teasing and triumphant, she pushed the whole tray towards him.

‘You need to keep your strength up, young one. The winters here are bitter; we can’t have you catching a chill.’

Still the plate remained untouched.

‘Tell you what, I’ll make you a deal. If you eat half of your dinner, I’ll tell you about your uncle.’

Her eyes twinkled as he dug in, and he knew she’d tricked him. She’d done it so elegantly, however, that he couldn’t find it within himself to be annoyed.

The food was as good as she’d claimed, and before he knew it the plate was half empty. She raised an eyebrow.

‘Is it to your liking?’

‘Yes. It’s just like a meal my mother used to make sometimes on a Sunday…’

He fell silent again.

Ahsoka leaned forward with gentle eyes, placing a hand on his arm.

‘It’s okay, Luke. You can talk about her if you like. I won’t tell anyone.’

So he did. He told her about his mother’s soft voice and her firm capable hands. How she was his father’s equal in a world that tried to limit her. How she was wise, and patient, and kind. He halted a few times in his telling, sometimes for whole minutes at a time, but Ahsoka never rushed him. In fact, she said nothing at all, an attentive listener to Luke’s stories. He didn’t even stop when he felt moisture on his cheeks, though ordinarily he would’ve been ashamed to cry in front of a virtual stranger. To cry so free from restraint or concealment was liberating, and it was with huge relief that he let the tears fall.

And still, Ahsoka remained where she was, not reaching out to wipe them away. She didn’t smother or censure him, as neither was what he needed.

Luke had been virtually silent since he set foot on the ship that had taken him away from everything he’d ever known. His father, who often grumbled about how boisterous and chatty his adopted son was, would have been horrified at the sudden transformation.

But through her own silence, Ahsoka gave Luke back his voice.

As Luke moved onto the last portion of his tale that told of the treacherous journey across the ocean and the moors to Mustafar Manor- he’d glossed over the details of the earthquake which were still too traumatic to talk about-, Ahsoka stood up to place the warm bedpan under the bedsheets.

‘-and Tarkin said I shouldn’t expect to see my uncle. Why?’

She paused, pulling the sheets taut beneath the mattress and giving an approving look at his empty plate.

‘Your uncle is extremely busy. He’s rarely at home, and when he is, he doesn’t like to be disturbed.’

‘Will he send me away to boarding school?’ Luke dreaded the answer but he needed to know.

‘He hasn’t discussed it with me. But surely you don’t _want_ to stay here? It’s no place for a small boy. If you went to school, you could make friends and be around children your own age,’ Ahsoka said encouragingly.

‘I suppose.’

She could see he was unconvinced, and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

‘Whatever happens, you don’t have to worry about it for a while. A final decision won’t be made until Spring, when the new term starts. Your uncle may engage a tutor here if you wish to stay-’

‘Can I ask him when I see him?’ Luke said quickly. He couldn’t stand the thought of waiting so long for someone else to decide his fate.

‘I…I don’t know, Luke. It would honestly depend on his temperament that day. But rest assured, he will summon you to see him when he’s ready.’

‘When will that be?’ Luke persisted.

Ahsoka sat down again heavily.

‘Luke, there’s something you must know about your uncle. Despite whatever the other servants may tell you, he isn’t a monster. He’s just… he’s had a difficult life, and sometimes when we carry heavy burdens, they change us. Do you understand?’

He nodded, though he wasn’t sure if he did.

‘I don’t know when you’ll see him, and I don’t want to get your hopes up. It could be tomorrow; it could be a month away. But whenever you’re called, whatever happens, you _mustn’t_ stare.’

‘Stare? Stare at what?’

‘At his scar. He was a war hero, you know, and got slashed through the eye for his trouble. He lost his left arm in the same conflict, and has to use a prosthetic.’

She huffed, starting to clear away the table. ‘Apparently these are grounds enough for people to cower away in fear as if he were deformed, though I assure you he isn’t. I have no doubt your excellent mother already taught you this lesson, Luke, but in life, we must judge people by their actions rather than their appearances. He’s as human as you and I, and his greatest affliction is sadness rather than any tendency towards evil.’

‘Sadness… is it because of what happened to my aunt?’

One of the trays slipped from her hands, and she looked at him sharply.

‘Who told you about your aunt?’

‘N-no one. I guessed.’

She seemed sceptical, and opened her mouth to no doubt interrogate him further-

Terrible, unearthly shrieking leapt out of the silence, shuddering through the walls. The sound was accompanied by a violent gust of wind that swept down the corridor and through the crack underneath the door, causing the fire to flicker unnervingly. The lone candle, already on its last breath, flared one last time before finally dying.

They both started out of pure shock. The other trays fell from Ahsoka’s grasp, clattering to the floor. Their eyes met, and Luke realised with a thrill that Ahsoka couldn’t deny hearing the sound as Tarkin had.

‘What is that, that crying noise?’

She regained her composure remarkably quickly, but Luke had seen her expression before she slipped a veil of calm over it.

‘Just the wind. It creates a dreadful racket, billowing through these halls and rooms; sometimes it really sounds as if someone is out there on the moors, lost and crying-’

The wailing increased, the volume louder than Luke had ever heard it, and Ahsoka stumbled over her words.

‘That’s not the wind,’ Luke said quietly.

‘Yes. It must be one of the scullery maids. She has dreadful toothache, and complains all day and night, the poor thing.’

They both knew it was a lie, but Ahsoka had already turned her back on him, gathering all the plates and cutlery together in an effort to look busy.

‘I must take my leave, young one, but your breakfast will be here at the same time tomorrow-’

‘Can…can _you_ come tomorrow, instead of him?’

She seemed taken aback, turning back to him in surprise, before her face split into a wide smile.

‘I’ll come every morning if I can, Luke.’

She leant down and gave him a quick kiss on the forehead, which seemed to come as a surprise to both of them. 

‘Now, into bed with you. It’s late, and you need to get some sleep if you’re going to be fit for exploring tomorrow.’

‘Exploring?’ he asked eagerly, still curled in his chair.

She gestured at the bed expectantly and he obediently changed into his nightclothes, burrowing under the covers. The hot pan Ahsoka had placed there earlier had warmed the sheets invitingly, making it impossibly cosy.

‘Yes. The worst of the rain should clear overnight. If the weather is kind, you should be able to go outside.’

‘On the moor?’

‘Heavens, no! You’d get lost out on those peaks. I wager you’ll find the gardens large enough to distract you. There’s acres of it, all sprawled out beyond the main lawn.’

She lit the new candles with a flourish as the fire ebbed. 

‘And I can really go anywhere I like in the gardens?’

She smoothed the covers over him as his mother had once done.

‘You’ll find more than enough to amuse yourself with out there; I doubt you’ll get around to exploring even a quarter of it. Goodnight, Luke. I will see you in the morning.’

With one last smile, she picked up the oil lamp and left, closing the door gently behind her. He didn’t hear the key in the lock as he had done earlier, but the urge to escape the room was sated now that he knew he would be going out the following day. Even if he didn’t see his uncle for a while, the gardens were an exciting enough prospect to keep him distracted.

Sleep came more easily to him that night as his eyes fluttered closed, his heart slightly less heavy than it had been before he’d met the housekeeper. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter did make me cry a little bit when writing it but I cry at most things, so idk if that’s a true indicator of sadness. Regardless, I fucking love Ahsoka. 
> 
> Next chapter Luke will discover the mysterious locked garden in the grounds…
> 
> Comments are very motivating so please let me know what you thought! 😊 Thanks for reading. 
> 
> Come scream about SW with me on [Tumblr](https://couronnedesfleurs.tumblr.com/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/fleurscouronne).


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